


"don't cry."

by clickingkeyboards



Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [39]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: Best Friends, Boarding School, Canon Compliant, First Meetings, Friendship, Injury, Minor Injuries, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21748165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clickingkeyboards/pseuds/clickingkeyboards
Summary: Alexander defends George from other English people, George explains English customs to Alexander.Canon EraWritten for the thirty-ninth prompt in the '100 ways to say "I love you"' prompt list by p0ck3tf0x on Tumblr.
Relationships: Alexander Arcady & George Mukherjee
Series: one hundred ways to say 'i love you' [39]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1533164
Kudos: 19





	"don't cry."

We are four weeks into our first term in Second Form and there is a curious new boy in our dormitory. His name is Alexander Arcady and, while gathering what I can about him, I have discovered:

 **Name:** Alexander Arcady

 **Age:** 13

 **Appearance:** He is tall, has rather a lot of rather nice blond hair, his sleeves always too short, and he has hazel eyes.

 **Skills:** Writing, public speaking, pitching, shorthand, reading, charming our classmates

 **Personality:** Charismatic, open, righteous, kind, charming, an explosive presence.

 **Notes:** He takes care to accept and kind towards me.

 **Motive:** Inconclusive, perhaps a long-running dare or Twitting forcing him to be nice to me because I am so alone (unlikely, as Twitting does not like me or care and my father would not write in to tell him to do that).

Alexander Arcady is righteous and charismatic, his voice carrying across our dormitory in his indignant tones.

“Don’t call him that word!”

“Why are you so horrid to him?”

“Don’t say that about Jewish people, you sound as bad as that German man.”

“That’s an awful to write about George. Don’t pass that to him.”

“How dare you?”

“I would take offense to you calling me a cowboy but you call Mukherjee much worse, Bly.”

I cannot believe that Alexander Arcady cares so much about the discriminatory comments that chase me here and there, down the halls of Weston and up the sleeves of my blazer to wrap around my neck and choke me. In return, I cannot do anything to help him. Nobody is unkind to him or dislikes him; in fact it is the opposite, as he is an All-Star American who can pitch like a professional and cartwheel with one hand full of books.

I would like to help him if I could.

The opportunity to help Alexander Arcady comes in a rounders game. It’s pouring down outside, peppering us with what feels like bullets made of ice as we shiver in our shirts and shorts and sporting shoes. However, everybody English grits their teeth and bears it because we are English and we do not care for complaints. Our resident American, however, complains with volume until I hiss out the side of my mouth, “Keep it quiet, Arcady. It’s not at all English and, if you keep on, Dicker will tell the bowler to aim for your head because you’re irritating him right now.”

He shuts up.

Dicker chooses him as one of the two team captains, and I groan. Dicker has chosen Featherstonehaugh as the other one, meaning that I will end up as the last person chosen, taken onto the reluctant last team despite my skill.

“Arcady, you get first choice, as you are new,” Dicker says in his army-worthy strict tones, pointing a stiff finger at Alexander.

“George,” he says, pointing at me. “You said that you’re good at this game!”

I may have said that I’m rather good at the game, but other boys are famed for it. They play the game at lunchtimes and win tournaments across the country, while I am casually wonderful at the game.

“I am,” I tell him, but when I am standing by his side, I whisper, “Don’t take pity on me, you absolute prick.”

“I am not!” he says, louder than necessary. “I like you, George! You’re nice, and you’re clever. You carry yourself like a king.”

“Fitting for a boy beat down like a peasant.”

He speaks no more.

* * *

When we are fielding (because Alexander picked first, Featherstonehaugh got to choose what he wanted us to do), Alexander and I work together. I don’t intend it but we work well as a team. He is fielding far out, while I hover a little way away from second base. Otto Gallagher hits the ball as far as he possibly can and Alexander dives for it, half-sprawling across the field as he grabs it. Before he ends up on his knees on the churning mud, he throws it has hard as he can towards me. It hits my palm with a sharp crack and I throw it towards second base, knocking over the pole before he reaches it.

Alexander’s mouth is a round ‘o’ of shock before he mouths, “Oh my god!”

I grin.

Thomas Jenkins bowls.

Louis Manning hits it.

Isaac Fletcher tries to catch it but fumbles, drops it, and falls.

Duke Elliot grabs it and failingly throws the ball towards fourth base.

Rufus Moore grabs the ball from the ground and turns with a nasty smile to face away from the base he really should be striking with the ball.

Still with that nasty smile on his face, he turns towards Alexander Arcady, who is making some sort of ‘I don’t know what he’s doing’ gesture to Jenkins, who is highly confused.

“ALEXANDER!”

He turns just slightly, in time to be struck harshly in the neck and jaw.

“FUCK!”

He falls to the ground and lands on his elbows, which sink quite deeply into the thick mud. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m racing over to him and dropping to my knees at his side. “Alex!” I say, not realising that I have just coined a nickname I’ll be using for the rest of my life. “Whatever you do, Alexander, **don’t cry**.”

“Why?” he asks, though he blinks back tears.

“If you cry it is a display of weakness. Every English person knows that. You may want to be weak but you cannot do that with the rest of our form staring on.”

“You English people are so strange!”

I reach out a hand to help him up. He takes it. I smile.

“Can I take him to the san, Mister Dicker?” I yell across the pitch.

With a weary nod, he permits us.

“Alex, huh?” a rather dazed Alexander asks as I catch hold of his elbow to steady him as he dizzily stumbles from side to side, rocking on his feet when we stall, swaying before falling against me.

“Shut up… Hastings.”


End file.
